


The Giving Tree

by AquaMarinara, redundantoxymorons



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Also a novel concept, And there's a lot of miscommunication, Basically there's a lot of angsty letter writing and tree metaphors, F/M, Jughead is a shy bean, Which leads to angst but ends in fluff, because the authors are too soft to end the fic any other way, what a novel concept, who writes!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-07
Updated: 2018-09-07
Packaged: 2019-07-08 07:02:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15925316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AquaMarinara/pseuds/AquaMarinara, https://archiveofourown.org/users/redundantoxymorons/pseuds/redundantoxymorons
Summary: "He’s glad they’ve always dealt in books. In letters, in words—written, not spoken. He’s glad he doesn’t have to brave a goodbye before slipping away through the small gate in the Coopers’ white picket fence.She’ll read the letter later. That’ll be goodbye enough."OrShe doesn't read the letter until it's too late.





	The Giving Tree

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, friends! This little one-shot is Mari's 4am brain-child. She was woken up from her peaceful sleep and forced to write it, and eventually roped Izzie into it, and now here we are.
> 
> The title comes from Shel Silverstein's The Giving Tree. It's a glorious little children's book, and highly recommended. Go give it a quick read if you haven't already.
> 
>  
> 
> And now, enjoy!

They’d dealt in books their whole lives. Letters strung together to form words, words strung together on paper.

 

They’d cried over  _ The Giving Tree  _ countless times as kids. He’d read the simple words to her, and she’d read them back to him. Tears in their eyes, then, they’d climb down and wrap Archie’s tree in a hug.

 

They’d stepped into the library hand-in-hand as second graders, buzzing with excitement as their other hands clutched newly-minted library cards: His gift to her for her birthday.

 

They’d gone through Andrew Clements’  _ A School Story _ by the rushing stream of Sweetwater the summer before sixth grade, her way of pushing him to enjoy their first-ever required reading for middle school. He’d blush every time she mentioned his very own School Story and its future publication.

 

They’d disagreed over  _ The Glass Castle _ at Pop’s in eighth grade, when he proclaimed Jeannette’s mother as  _ “trying her best” _ and she denounced the woman for neglecting her children. He finished the argument with a bitter  _ “at least she stuck around.” _

 

She’d watched him fall in love with Truman Capote and his nightmare-inducing  _ In Cold Blood _ in eleventh grade, his eyes shining as he pulled out his new laptop (a gift from Fred that he wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to repay). Her eyes were just as bright as they followed his fingers across the keys. His very own School Story was evolving into a behemoth that she was never allowed more than a glimpse of.

 

He hadn’t gotten to watch her unwrap her Christmas gift that year—a signed first edition of Toni Morrison’s  _ Beloved— _ but he’d gotten the tightest hug of his life when she’d managed to slip over to the Andrews’ the next day.

 

He doesn’t get to watch her open her high school graduation gift either. It’s wrapped in the same candy cane striped paper, but a whole different book this time. Still letters strung together, still words on paper. But the cover reads ADVANCE READING COPY — NOT FOR SALE above  _ Sickly Sweetwater  _ and a letter sits folded into the last page of the novel. One addressed to a certain Betty Cooper. One that he will also never get to watch her read.

 

His fingers shake lightly as he sets the present down at the table overflowing with gifts at her graduation party. He catches a slight glimpse of white and gold (her lace dress and glistening blonde locks) as she hugs him tightly. She squeals, excited at his presence, and then drags him to the backyard, where the rest of the guests chatter about the sunny weather or how  _ “she’ll do so well at NYU next year” _ . Vegas steals her attention as he eats a barbecued burger patty off the patio, and then she’s gone.

 

He’s glad they’ve always dealt in books. In letters, in words—written, not spoken. He’s glad he doesn’t have to brave a goodbye before slipping away through the small gate in the Coopers’ white picket fence.

 

She’ll read the letter later. That’ll be goodbye enough.

 

~~~

 

He hasn’t been responding to her texts. It’s not necessarily unusual of him to disappear for a few days, especially when FP decides to make a rare (and drunken) appearance, but her stomach still churns a bit every time she checks her phone only to find no new notifications.

 

She wants to congratulate him on the book, thank him for the advance copy he’d so nonchalantly left on her dining room table amidst the dozens of inconsequential gifts.

 

Her texts transition from angry—he should’ve told her as soon as a publishing house picked it up—to ecstatic and overwhelmingly happy to, finally, accepting of his silence as they trickle off. She’s currently trying to keep herself distracted from the lack of response by hyper focusing on the words in front of her— _ his words, _ she reminds herself.

 

They’re  _ perfect,  _ she almost wants to say. Beautiful in their descriptions of the Riverdale of their childhood, of Archie’s treehouse and Pop’s Diner and Sweetwater River. Heartbreaking in their retelling of the town’s splintering, starting with the downfall of the protagonist’s very own family and radiating out to crack through everyone else’s lives.

 

Tears drop at the passage about a blonde and the ladder propped up against her bedroom window, the perfect escape from home, the perfect entrance for a prince who never came.

 

“Elizabeth!” her mother’s voice calls from below, and she wipes at her eyes before shoving the book into the back of her closet.

 

He never replies.

 

~~~

 

She doesn’t find it again until the day before she leaves. She’s packing pastel sweaters and denim overalls and her white Keds into a suitcase to pile into the station wagon with the rest of her college dorm furnishings.

 

It tumbles out from behind a burnt orange sundress, spine cracked from the stress of having been left open on the floor for weeks. She runs her fingers through the grooves, soothing, and then sits on her carpet to continue where she left off.

 

A nudge from Caramel sends the book flying to the ground, out of her hands, and she notices the wrinkled-up corner of a slip of paper slide out from between the last few pages.

 

_ To Betty Freakin' Cooper, _ the front reads, and she can’t help but smile as her nail picks at the carefully bent edge. She unfolds the letter slowly, smoothing out the grooves that time has etched into the paper.

 

_ Betts, _

_ Forgive me for not telling you earlier. About everything: finishing my twisted School Story, sending it off to a publisher without the help of my very own Zoe Reisman, writing a large part of it about said wonderful Zoe Reisman. _

 

Betty frowns, eyebrows drawing together. Caramel mewls at her side.

 

_ I’m sorry I was such a coward and couldn’t tell you before. I guess I was always more of a writer than anything else. _

 

Ba-dum.

 

_ But, please, trust me when I tell you that everything I wrote is the truth. _

 

Ba-dum.

 

_ I hadn’t set out to write a love letter in the form of a novel, but there really aren’t enough words to describe my feelings for you, Betty Cooper. _

 

Ba-dum.

 

_ I’m sorry I’m still very much a coward who can’t face you after this. If, by some miracle, you feel the same, I’ll be waiting by the giving tree until I hop on a train to Toledo. Might as well make use of the advance payment and make sure Jelly gets enough to eat, and maybe another Pink Floyd tee. _

 

Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum. The blood rushes to her ears, and Betty can no longer hear Caramel over the noise of her heart beating too fast in her chest.

 

_ If I don’t see you, well, good luck in the Big Apple, Cooper. _

_ Love, _

_ Your very own Natalie Nelson _

 

And then her heart stops, and she has to clamp her eyes shut to keep the room from spinning. He wrote her a love letter, no—novel, he waited for her this whole summer, and she let him down. Oh, god.  _ She let him down. _

 

She blindly reaches for Caramel, pulling her into her side, and wraps her body around the cat, chest heaving as she gasps for breaths into the kitten’s calico fur.

 

~~~

 

She stumbles out of her room a few hours later, knees wobbly as she navigates the stairs carefully so as not to alert her mother to her presence. After some major course-correcting and a few steadying breaths, she manages to cross into Archie’s backyard, eyes zeroed in on the tree.

 

It no longer holds up their small wooden treehouse, that too having gone the way of their childhoods, but it’s there. Their giving tree. Complete with a little  _ J+B _ they’d carved into its bark before adding a  _ +A _ upon Archie’s insistence.

 

Her finger dips into the grooves of the mark, moving along the swoop of the letters, and then she sinks to the ground below, head folding into the knees pulled to her chest. God, how she let him down.

 

~~~

 

She pushes herself away from the tree’s stump as Polaris shines brighter in the darkening sky and forces herself back up the stairs to her room, where she left her cellphone. Maybe. Just maybe–

 

The call gets forwarded straight to voicemail. Of course.

 

She sighs into her pillow, fingers clutching at the now-crumpled piece of paper in her left hand, and she squeezes her fist even more, the sharp edges of her nails nearly cutting into her skin. It hurts, a brand she inflicts upon herself, and her mind goes blank except for one word: paper.

 

Paper. Paper. Pap– _ a letter _ . She’ll write him a letter.

 

Caramel follows her from her bed to her desk, where a pile of loose leaf and sparkly gel pens from her younger days await her. She picks the blue one, a teal that reminds her of his eyes, and begins to write.

 

_ Dear Juggie, _

 

No. She starts again on a new sheet of paper.

 

_ Dear Jughead, _

_ I got your letter. I’m sorry. _

 

No.

 

_ Dear Jug _ ,

_ I’m not sure if you blocked me before or after reading my texts, so I’ll reiterate how proud I am of you and your novel. I always knew you could do it. _

 

_ Thank you for letting me be one of the first people to read it—I know that must have been hard for you. _

 

She takes a deep breath, pen raised in the air as if waiting for permission to continue. Bright ink splatters onto the page, but she doesn’t restart this time.

 

_ That letter must have been hard to write too. But I’m so glad you did it—I’m so happy that I know, now. I didn’t before, and I promise you that I would have come to the tree if I’d read it any sooner. But I didn’t, and I missed you. You’re probably already in Toledo by now. I’m so sorry that I missed you, Jug. _

 

She hopes the tear that smudged the ink is convincing enough.

 

_ I’m going to miss you in New York. Come visit me, please. Or just send me a text every now and again. Let me know how you’re doing, what movies they’re going to show at the local theater. I’d love to hear from you, even though I know I don’t deserve to. _

 

_ Maybe one day we’ll both come back to Riverdale on a whim, find each other under the giving tree. What a dream that would be. _

 

_ All my love, _

_ Betts _

 

She sighs as she drops the pen to her desk and immediately folds the letter into thirds, not wanting to reread her writing. She’ll have to get the address by looking up Gladys Jones in the white pages. After all, how many could there be in Toledo?

 

~~~

 

Her stomach churns as she drops the envelope into the mailbox outside Riverdale’s ancient post office before taking off for New York City. Hopefully, she got the right address.

 

And, hopefully, she’ll get a response. If not, she’ll know what he really meant to send back: That he’s done with her, with her games. She’ll understand. And she’ll move on. She always does.

 

~~~

 

She goes four years without getting a response. She’s graduated, majored, whatever other word people use for  _ finished _ before she hears back from him, and it’s not in the form of a letter.

 

“Betty Cooper?”

 

Even four years later, she recognizes his voice in the disbelieving whisper that comes from behind her. Deliberately setting her sketchbook on the park bench next to her, she turns, tucking her pencil behind her ear.

 

She knows that it's him. It could only ever be him. Even so, she jumps perceptibly when she finally spots the gray beanie and raven head of curls so prominent in her childhood memories.

 

“Never thought I’d see the day.” He doesn’t seem nearly as surprised as she is, calm as he saunters towards her.

 

“I guess it isn’t such a big apple after all.” She resists the urge to slap herself for the comment, deciding to give herself a break. It’s not like she’d been expecting him to show up.

 

His mouth twists for a split second, and then relaxes. “How’ve you been?”

 

_ How has she been?  _ “Fine.” She pulls the pencil from behind her ear, suddenly desperate for something to do with her hands, and fidgets with it, rubbing the palm of her opposite hand with the eraser.

 

“Good to hear.”

 

“Yeah.” She really has been fine, surviving, moving on. But she has to wonder what he’s doing here in the Big Apple.  She's seized by the wild idea that he came to find her, but the thought passes as quickly as the September breeze . “What about you?”

 

“Good. Been traveling a lot lately.” She stares at the ground, watching as he scuffs his boot lightly against the pavement. “I’m actually in town to see Archie.”

 

Oh. Right. Archie.

 

He and Veronica had just moved into a penthouse on Park Ave, all courtesy of Mr. Lodge, of course. Betty has yet to go see it, but she assumes it must be gorgeous, if Veronica’s Instagram is anything to go by.

 

“I was just going for a walk, but, ah, it’s nice seeing you, Betty.”

 

“Yeah,” she breathes out slowly, pausing before remembering herself, “you too.”

 

As he turns to walk away, she realizes that this is  _ Jughead _ , her best friend since childhood, and that she really doesn’t want to lose him for the next four years. He’s several yards away before she can gather the presence of mind to call after him. 

 

“Jug! Wait!”

 

He turns back almost involuntarily, shoulders still half-facing away from her, eyebrow cocked.

 

“I should--I mean, we should, or maybe Archie and Veronica could--”

 

“Betty.”

 

“Weshouldgetcoffeesometime,” she blurts out.

 

He doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t smirk, he doesn’t smile, he doesn’t even turn all the way around. 

 

She realizes just how much four years has done to him and opens her mouth to explain. “I mean, we were–”

 

“Yeah,” he interrupts. “I’d like that.”

 

If she didn’t know better, she might have thought that he was blushing. 

 

“Oh,” she says, surprised, “Oh. Okay, then. Um, does tomorrow at eleven work for you? Or Saturday? How long are you here? Would Monday work? Because–”

 

“How about now?”

 

“What?”

 

“Now, Betty. It’s New York City, there are three thousand coffee shops open, and I’m guessing we both have the time.”

 

He’s right, she definitely has the time, but there’s something in his tone that sets her off. Some kind of pissed-off righteousness that has no right to be there. She stomps her foot and crosses her arms, and imagines that she looks somewhat like Juniper, her four year old niece, right before she throws a temper tantrum. “Hey,” she protests. “I know that what I did was shitty, but you have no right to be angry with me. Especially not after you ignored me.”

 

“ _ I  _ ignored  _ you _ ?” His laugh is hard, disbelieving. “Come on, Betty,” he continues, eyes hard and blazing with a cool intensity that turns them from azure to ice. “I was scared. I’ve been scared my whole life. So I poured my heart out to you in that book, in that letter, in the only way I knew how to, and you couldn’t even bother to show up.” His voice cracks on the end of the sentence, but he muffles it with a loud throat clearing, and she knows he’s gearing up for a fight. Her hackles raise, ready--“You rejected me, just like them. Just like every other goddamn person in my life, Betty.”

 

Ready for anything but that. Maybe she can’t read him as well as she used to, because she definitely hadn’t been expecting  _ that _ . The vulnerability, the accusation. Had she really? Had she really left him like Gladys, like Jellybean, like FP? In hindsight, she guesses she had. She’d committed the biggest felony in the Code of Jughead.

 

But then she thinks about the letter, her explanation, her groveling, and his silence. And then she’s angry again. “I already told you why I didn’t show up that summer,” she nearly shouts, volume only restrained because they’re in public and  _ she’s a Cooper, goddammit. _

 

“No, you didn’t, but I’d love to hear whatever excuse you manage to come up with,” he volleys back, just as agitated as her at this point, fingers combing through his hair repeatedly. It’s almost distracting.

 

“The letter, the freaking letter!” She cries out, no longer aware of her surroundings or the runners shooting the pair odd looks as they jog by.

 

“What are you talking about, Betty?” He seems genuinely confused, and that makes her even more upset. Has he really forgotten about it already?

 

“You know what, Jughead,” she sighs, arms swinging at her sides, heavy with defeat, “forget it. I don’t need the extra caffeine anyway. Tell V I’ll come see her and Archie next weekend, I guess.”

 

She’s halfway to her apartment, sketchbook tucked under her arm and pencil back behind her ear, when she remembers the address.  _ It must’ve been the wrong address. He didn’t even get the letter _ .

 

It’s too late, she reasons, to do anything about it now. Their time together under the giving tree has come and gone, now just a dream carried along by the whispers of the wind.

 

~~~

 

She’s back in Riverdale for Juniper and Dagwood’s seventh birthday, when Archie deems them old enough to help him rebuild the treehouse, this time in the boughs of one of the maple trees in the corner of the Coopers’ backyard.

 

It ends up looking nearly identical to the one Fred had set up all those years ago, and the older Andrews man claps Archie on the back proudly as they all watch the twins explore their new hideout.

 

“You think they’re going to carve their initials on this one?” Archie asks her with a sly grin, waiting for Polly’s burst of outrage to come from behind them.

 

Predictably, it does: “Absolutely not!”

 

Betty has to stop herself from giggling at her sister’s farmer-cult antics. “Nobody will be harming the trees. You’re lucky I even let you set this thing up in the first place, Archibald.” She’s never sounded more like her mother, and this time Betty has to walk away before she bursts out into laughter.

 

She finds herself drawn to the Andrews’ yard, led through the gap in the fence separating the two plots of land by some force. The wind, perhaps. Or something even as simple as nostalgia.

 

She runs her finger along the tree’s bark, through the grooves of their initials, just as she had so long ago.

 

“Pinch me, I’m dreaming,” comes a voice behind her, and she nearly jumps out of her skin at how close he is. Too close. She whirls around.

 

“What makes you think that?” It comes out breathier than she’d meant it to, and she hopes he hasn’t noticed.

 

The smirk on his face tells her he has. “You. Me. Together. Under the giving tree. What more could I ask for?”

 

“Tell me one thing, Jug.”

 

“Anything.”

 

“Did you ever stop?” she whispers.

 

Silence. A beat. Another. She turns towards the tree, away from him, away from what they’ve done to each other. 

 

“Betts,” he says, reaching for her hand. 

 

She turns, hesitating. “Juggie?”

 

~~~

 

When his lips land on hers, she knows it’s not just a fever dream, her imagination, a whisper of the wind. She can feel him in her heart, in her soul, can feel the branches of the tree come to wrap around them, loving them, just as it always had and always would. Their own giving tree.

 

**Author's Note:**

> We hope you enjoyed that little ficlet! Please leave all questions, comments, and concerns below. We'd love the feedback.
> 
>  
> 
> Also, for those of you wondering where on Earth the new update of Mari's fic Little Talks is, well, don't fret. It'll be out this weekend; she just had to get this one-shot out of her head first.
> 
> Kisses! <3


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